There isn't much to life and it's intricacies. We are the ones who make it complicated. Life always poses us questions with "Yes" and "No" answers. It's we who taint it with a thousand shades, prolong the decisions and let cobwebs hang from it; we love making things difficult for ourselves. That is what I think of life. But then you seem to be a master at denying every thought of me. You have showed me that how relationships as simple as love can be filled with so many layers. You write in layers...The conversations you write have so many layers.No wonder the world, overfed with simplicity and obsessed with self , can't understand. Even I am one of them. When I read you, it all begins with jealousy, "Huh! What's so great about it! Even I can write like that!" But it's only after I close the Chrome Window that I realise that it was not about the language I should be concerned but about what were you trying to say. I shouldn't have been a critic, a reader, a fellow blogger there but a quite listener. But am I the only one like me?
Well, that's what I guess when I find no comments on your posts. May be what you write are too far fetched and only a dozen in a million would understand and relate.
You are different from the rest. You are not like them, the ones who cry for love and do so with Cliche`s. I don't know who you are or from where you are but you are an intrigue to me. You write about women, about Prostitutes, about girls swooning with pride, about girls like me and unlike me, you write about love but then not about love. You are the only one I read who touches lust with the softness of love, who just adds a tinge of insanity to purity, like a drop of ink to a bowl of milk. That's what I think of your writing.
You write about nights, your lonely walks on the footpaths, the pariahs, children...You write about dispassionate love but only as conversations. I don't know who you are but you certainly are not one of them...
I haven't found you following anyone, you rarely comment and it's not strange that, no one comments on your posts either. So, you are one of those "I write for myself" types. No affinity for the audience. Then why write at all? I know, no matter how many times one says that their Blogs are their personal space where they write about their personal feelings but the moment you put word to that page nothing remains personal. There's always that audience who controls your words. But you are different...
You don't wait for people to read you, you write almost everyday, sometimes twice a day and sometimes for days you just disappear. One needs to stalk you though, to keep track of what you write. You have this habit of sometimes removing the posts...
You use the most outrageous of metaphors.Most uncommon I should say. You are not like the rest who can't help write about froth when they write about sea, for whom the longing brings the word "Miss you" and whatever else they write sounds nothing more than that word ...you write about tumbleweeds rolling along the beaches, you write about whole gardens of silhouettes, you write about intoxicated men in sinful casts.
I wish I could meet you just once, I wish I could talk to you at least once. I am intimidated to even comment on your posts. You come to me as a stranger who better stay as a stranger.
"...wry notes of saxophone..."
Keep writing...for yourself. :)